


Lamentations

by xxJillianElizabethxx



Category: The Secret Garden - All Media Types, The Secret Garden - Frances Hodgson Burnett
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-21
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2019-11-01 13:51:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17868458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxJillianElizabethxx/pseuds/xxJillianElizabethxx
Summary: A look into the 20 stages of grief through Archibald's mourning of Lilias. book/musical-verse mostly ON HOLD





	1. Shock

Archibald was sat up in the seclusion of his library, free from the servants and visitors.

“How had this happened,” he thought aloud, transfering what remained in the wine bottle beside him to his glass.

The past few days didn’t even seem real. Everything played out like a dream. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be; he was supposed to be happy; he was supposed to be celebrating the birth of his son with his wife.

His wife

It felt like someone had stabbed him in the heart and diminished all hope of happiness from within.

Afterall, what’s life for a cripple but one of misery and ruin. It was all his fault Lilias was gone – taken from this earth far too soon – leaving him with a son who will only grow up to lead as lonely and burdensome a life as he has...if he grows up.

She’s gone

He kept telling himself, but he couldn’t believe the words. Pretty soon he would wake up and she would walk into the room and climb into his arms and kiss him with all the adoration her tiny frame was capable of to comfort him from this nightmare.

The memory of the day before was still vivid, though hazy all the same. The events played back in Archibald’s mind like individual photographs as opposed to one cohesive experience.

“My God, it was only yesterday – how was it only yesterday?”

He awoke this morning with her in his arms, but she had already left this world.

“If she passed away in the night and we cannot determine an exact date,” the doctor had been telling him,” then I am obligated to list yesterday’s date on her death certificate, as she died from injuries obtained then.”

Archibald’s mind was racing, he was hardly in control of his actions; he felt about ready to pounce upon Dr. Craven like a wild animal.

“We stayed up past midnight. I– we– we couldn’t– we wouldn’t– neither of us wanted to go to sleep because we knew she– we knew,” he wept. “So help me God, I will not see my son’s birthday written on my wife’s headstone.”

“Archie, without proof, I can’t rely on your word while you’re in such a state. It pains me so to be doing this, you know, but I can’t lie on a legal document just to comfort you.”

Archibald huffed at the protest.

“Well then, Neville, I will trust you to do the right thing,” looking to the solicitor who had been politely ignoring the brothers’ arguing, “I will be in the library.”

“Lord Craven,” the solicitor hesitantly said, stopping him from leaving, “as the executive of her will we need you present for all arrangements.”

The meeting seemed to pass around Archibald in slow motion. He felt the entire time as though he were under the control of some unseen figure. It was as though he was a mere witness to the action, rather than an active participant.

When the legalities were settle and the arrangements set, Neville showed the solicitor out, while Archibald, much relieved, retreated to the small library he had near his chambers in the west wing of Misselthwaite. It provided him with a more intimate environment than the main one downstairs, but also kept him further from the nosy servants.

He had ordered the curtains drawn and a fire lit (in spite of the warm weather of the season.)

He sat in his chair with a book open in his lap, but he wasn’t reading it. He wasn’t even looking at the pages – he was looking at the chair beside his, faintly illuminated by the soft glow emanating from the fireplace. Specifically, his gaze was focussed on the book which rested on the arm of the chair: The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket.

“Two nights ago,” Archibald mused aloud, shaking his head, “we sat up laughing about how two full pages of the novel were dedicated to the description of penguins. She said it was excessive, I said it was poetic. She asked if our child would like Edgar Allan Poe as much as the two of us did, I asked if she was ready to be a mother. And she said ‘I don’t know, we’ll have to wait and see.’ Then she asked if Arthur and Dirk (Dirk, who was Dirk? Ah yes – Peters!) would be returning to England after they left the Galapagos, and I said she’d have to wait and see.”

One of them was right:

Peters and Pym sailed on to eventually explore Antarctica to try to uncover the mysteries of the southern pole, but Lilias would never get to uncover the mysteries of motherhood.

How could this have happened?

What did I do to deserve this?

Could she really be gone?

The same questions rang in his head like a mantra; yesterday’s tragedy left him completely confounded.

The lonely man in the chair averted his gaze, turning instead to the dancing flames before him. The blinding light was a severe contrast to the darkness enveloping Archibald, both in the library and in his heart.

“Why do all these happy memories feel like a lifetime ago,” his inner voice continued, taunting him, “why did she do this to me?”

To us; he kept forgetting about the boy.

His son was alive. Archibald couldn’t comprehend how. Granted, he wasn’t doing well, and the midwife had not expressed much hope.

But what does that Sowerby woman know? Of course the boy is going to live, Archibald’s own brother is caring for him.

Maybe Neville shouldn’t even try? Is a life like his father worthy enough for the boy to survive?

Why must the child live, while the mother is laid to rest? Why couldn’t it be him instead of her?

How could Lilias truly be gone?

“She promised,” the words were barely above a whisper, not that it mattered – no one was around to hear.

“Goddammit, she promised me, but she lied,” he all but shout, practically jumping out of his chair.

In a sudden rage he picked up her book and tossed it into the fire.

Instant regret passed over the man’s face as he lept toward the fireplace, reaching his hand in without feeling the flames.

That was her book, a book she once held close in curiosity, and he had so carelessly tossed it away like it never mattered to her.

The book had only barely caught, and he was able to smother the bit that had with his bare hands.

He didn’t feel the pain of the minor burns that were fresh on his palms – he was too concerned with the heavier pain in the depths of his soul.

He rang the servants’ bell.

Archibald held the singed book to his chest, sitting back down in his chair, trying to remember what it felt like to hold her in his embrace.

Never again would he know that feeling – never again would he hold her in his arms.

Never again would he hear her melodic voice floating through the fresh air of the moorland skies.

Never again would he hear his name dancing on her lips – called with joy, spoken with pure affection, whispered in conspiracy, sighed in contentment, moaned in ecstasy.

Never again would he feel the softness of her loose hair cascading across his bare chest after making love.

Never again would he know the beauty of her love for him.

Archibald heard faint footsteps behind him.

Not bothering to turn around – only one person (aside his brother, who was presently tending to the boy) knew of the Master’s whereabout – he spoke,

“Pitcher, get me–” his command was cut short when his valet appeared at his side with an open bottle of wine and a (rather well filled) glass on a silver salver.

Mr. Pitcher placed the tray on the table beside his master and left with a polite nod before slipping silently away.

“My God,” he whispered, taking a long sip of the sweet alcohol, looking again at the chair beside him, “how, Lily, my love, can I go on without you?”

He finished the contents of his glass, already helping himself to another.

His vision blurred as silent tears began to collect in his soft eyes, “how?”


	2. Numbness

Drink helped take away the pain – it hollowed Archibald’s heart so he didn’t have to endure the sorrow – he didn’t have to feel anything.

Come a few days, he began growing distant from the household. He had become far too used to waking up without her in his arms, despite the short period that has passed since he did so.

She was gone.

No

Not gone, just dead.

She was lying in the cemetery of the ancestral estate. He had looked at her lifeless frame, done up and clothed in the very dress she wore when they were wed, when they had promised themselves to one another.

He was also reminded of the key she wore around her neck, still tied on with an old lavender hair ribbon – her favorite colour. Of course, he still had the original key to the garden, but her key was special, engraved with their anniversary, a day they only got to celebrate together once, the day he first showed her the barren garden she would eventually turn into their Eden.

He’d never forget the sight of her beaming at him under that cursed oak tree.

He’d never forget the sound of her cry, even if he feared he was already forgetting her voice.

He’d never forget the sight of her being lowered into the earth. She always said she wished to be one with the earth, but this is never what he imagined when she expressed such a dream.

To him, it was ages since he felt loved by her, accepted in the world because she was at his side, supporting him through it all.

Archibald never belonged in the high society he was born into, but having Lilias with him made all the side-stares and rude comment bearable.

Everyday, he sat in his study going through the motions of work until the clock struck seven, and he allowed himself a break (and a bottle of wine.) At least in waking he could try to forget her; when he fell asleep, she would taunt him with dreams he couldn’t control.

Time no longer mattered.

“How many days has it been,” he’d asked Mr. Pitcher one day.

“Six, milord,” was the short reply.

How long ago did that exchange take place?

To Archibald, each day flew by, but his past happiness – lost to him for but a week – seemed a lifetime ago.

“What does happiness mean anymore?” he expressed one morning, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

A knock came at the door, resounding in his ears. He permitted entry to the cause of the offending noise, and his brother came to his side, holding his son.

“He just woke-up,” Doctor Craven offered as an excuse upon seeing the confused expression on Archibald’s face.

“Very well.” The widower had hardly seen his son since the day the child was born. In fact, he took special care to assure he hadn’t at all.

Doctor Craven awkwardly placed the boy in his brother’s arms.

“Oh, he’s so...light,” Archibald observed, realizing he hadn’t held the boy save for assisting Lilias with feeding him on that dreadful evening. Doctor Craven had advised her against such, but he was no match for a Lady’s commands (and a mother, for that matter.)

“If my boy is to never know his mother, I want to at least establish a bond with him in what way I can,” she had weakly demanded; Archibald kissed her head.

Her accepting her fate made none of this easier for him.

“I’ll give you a moment alone together,” Neville remarked, noticing his brother’s mind wandering. He stepped out of the room, and Archibald felt more alone holding his child than he had in the week since Lilias had passed.

Abandoned him, or so he felt

Archibald was at a loss as to what he was supposed to do with the boy. Colin looked so small in the man’s large embrace, so frail; Neville had not seen much progress since the child’s premature birth.

The most startling thing to Archibald was the boy’s eyes. They were so much like _her_ eyes: big and innocent and curious. How he used to look into those eyes and feel pure joy.

But it was not Lilias looking at him; and the stare felt cold and judgemental, as though the boy was asking why he had been left in this world to suffer, without a mother – just a father who didn’t want to raise him.

Since Lily’s death, Archibald had felt lifeless, as though she took his soul with her to the afterlife.

He didn’t know if he wanted to scream or to cry, if he wanted help or solitude, mere comfort or a new source of happiness; he didn't’ know what he wanted because he couldn’t explain his emotions – he just felt a cold ache throughout his being. What was life without Lilias?

Archibald was shaken from his daze of self-pity by a cry in his arms.

“Are you upset because you knew I forgot you were there, little one,” he cooed morosely, holding Colin to his breast in an effort to comfort both himself and his son.

“Where is Neville,” he wondered looking at the door he’d assumed his brother was just on the other side of, “can’t he hear the boy crying?”

It seemed no matter what he tried, Archibald could not quiet his boy. Giving up, he cradled the child, looking at him – shockingly thankful for the crying, for it kept those haunting hazel eyes hidden from him – he let the noise of the child’s screams drown out the disturbing thoughts racing through his head There seemed too much in his mind, yet nothing at once, for each idea passed by too fast to even interpret.

“I know why you’re crying, Colin,” trying to keep his voice as gentle as possible, “it’s because you miss your mum. Well, so do I.”

Overcome with emotion, Archibald turned away.

Finally, Doctor Craven returned with Colin’s nurse who, upon seeing her charge in such distress, immediately relieved her master of him.

Within moments, Colin had relaxed and started drifting back to sleep in the nurse's arms; she left to bring him back to the nursery.

The doctor offered a concerned yet stern look to his brother who was pitifully stuttering out an excuse for the child’s cries.

Placing a comforting hand on his shoulder, “the boy will be fine – he’s probably just hungry. Though, I have to be honest, he isn’t gaining as much weight as I would have hoped by now.”

“Well, the doctor knows best, I supposed,” Archibald mumbled in agreeance.

“Archie, tell me what’s really on your mind. I’m hurting too, remember.”

“Woe is you,” Archibald thought, restraining his desire to argue. “How dare he use this moment to remind me of his love for my wife, as though that’s an obvious comfort to me while grieving her death.”

“If only she’d chosen him instead of me,” his internal monologue continued, “Colin would be healthy, and she’d still be alive.”

Instead, he replied, “you know nothing of what I’m going through.”

The doctor was slightly taken aback by the harsh tone of his brother’s accusations. Also wanting to avoid a row, Neville put up his hands defensively and left Archibald alone again.

 _Don’t let all these feelings bottle up inside_ was the last bit of advice he offered on his way out.

How easy it would be to put it all behind him, let the past go, permanently. Through desperate eyes, Archibald looked to the drawer he kept his pistol in.

He already felt so much pain inside that nothing else it seemed could cause him more. This feeling wouldn’t be much different.

And he would see Lilias once more.

His eyes found a photograph placed on the table above the drawer: it was the two of them in the garden – laughing! – Lilias pregnant with Colin.

He couldn’t. He knew she would never forgive him for abandoning the child she fought to bring into this world.

And yet, it would be so easy, so liberating.


	3. Denial

The click of the key falling into place resounded in the cool mist of the crisp Yorkshire morning. Archibald held back the dew-covered ivy as he pushed open the door to the garden.

The sun was just peeking out over the horizon, yet the man was not surprised in the least when, upon entering, his eyes landed on the slim frame of his wife.

She was smiling at him, her golden curls radiating in the first light of the day, her skirts rustling in the wind as she ran to embrace her husband who was still standing in the doorway.

Her whole figure seemed to glow whenever he saw her inside their private Eden.

“Good morning, my love,” her voice chimed, delicate and filled with love.

“Good morning, my sweet,” Archibald murmured into his pillow, still slightly possessed by his dream.

His eyes opened, and they struggled to adjust to the bright light pouring into his chambers _ he’d forgotten to draw the curtains closed again.

The Baron had grown so accustomed to sleepless nights in his youth that he had learned to seek comfort in the pale moonlight; it was a welcome visitor during the hours he spent trying to find again the peace of sleep. In days gone by, the pain which kept him awake was in his back – it was physical – and could be alleviated with medication; there was no way to tame the pain in his heart that kept him awake now.

Facing away from the window, Archibald’s gaze was instead met with the cold, empty sheets on her side of the bed.

Reality was a chill, biting into his skin, penetrating deep, despite the warm, oppressive air of the season.

He was surrounded by memories; everywhere he’d turn, he would see her face – hear her voice – guiding him along the endless days, until the blissful nights when he could close his eyes and hold her in his arms once more.

Each evening, Archibald would tell himself that she wasn’t really gone – she couldn’t be. It was all a nightmare, and one day he’d wake up to her sparkling hazel eyes smiling at him, taste her lips on his own, feel her warmth in his arms.

Bu, every morning (since that day, and evermore) he’d turn and find the other half of this bed abandoned – permanently – each time feeling like a piece of his already-shattered heart was breaking off and falling away into the pit of his sorrows.

Forcing himself out of bed, he dressed, mechanically going through the motions of making himself look much more put-together than he currently felt.

He splashed water on his face, hoping to shake himself from that half-waking stupor of being stuck in one’s own mind.

No matter what he tried, he couldn’t escape that feeling: it was his life now.

Since that dreadful day, Archibald had begun taking breakfast in his chambers in an effort to limit the amount of people he was forced to interact with.

However, the doctor had taken to joining him, so as to assure his elder brother was not completely shutting himself out of society, as he knew Archibald wished to do.

Perhaps it was also to help himself; afterall, Neville was also grieving a lost love, but Archibald would never acknowledge that.

No one could possibly hurt like he was: to lose the only person who made him feel he truly belonged in such a cruel world – that was loneliness. And that was a feeling the sociable Dr. Craven would not be able to understand.

or so he thought

The brothers ate in an awkward silence, one that served as some comfort to ARchibald; it reminded him of a simpler time, a time before he ever met Lilias.

The isolation of his younger days was a content alternative to the ridicule of society, but now those long-ago days were a blessing the widower wished he could get back.

He may have felt lonely then, but at least he felt alive.

Now, he didn’t feel anything; he felt like a background character in a story, left to be forgotten – his life wasn’t real. Everything that happened to him was completely out of his control, and no one cared enough to try to mend it.

“Archie,” shattering the silence, “please can we talk about how you are feeling?”

The man in question closed his eyes and sighed, leaning his head on the back of the settee, as though overcome with a migraine, in an attempt to quiet his bothersome little brother.

“I’m worried about you… we’re worried about you,” gesturing to the whole of the room so as to imply his statement was about the household staff.

“Then let them go,” Archibald grumbled, “with a pension or something to keep them from worrying until they find new employment.”

The doctor began losing patience.

“While you mope about up here feeling sorry for yourself, the rest of the house has moved on. There are things to do, rooms to look after–”

“Shut up the rooms, then. No one will be coming to stay here anymore. Li– _she_ was the entertainer, the one who brought life into our miserable home.”

Lilias’s name seemed to catch in his throat, causing his last thought to be more choked out than spoken.

“I know you want to help, but you can’t. My life feels too much like a dream that I can’t wake from, no matter how hard you try to shake me.”

“So you admit to dreaming about her?” Neville interrogated in response, “that’s not healthy.”

“Good God, Neville, not everyone grieves the same! My wife is– my wife–” reflecting a moment, unable to finish the sentence, fearing it would bring reality crashing down upon him, “stop trying to psychoanalyze me like one of those new patients of yours in London – at least you still have a life outside of Yorkshire.”

Somewhat flustered, but severely frustrated, Neville shot up out of his seat.

“Forgive me for trying to help! By all means, rot in here if you’d prefer, just like your wife is now in the ground,” he walked across the room, “because she’s dead!” emphasizing the word Archibald had been unable to utter by slamming to door behind him, shaking the chandelier above the abandoned breakfast dishes.


	4. Emotional Outbursts

tick...tock...tick...tock

Archibald unconsciously swayed to the rhythm of the Grandfather clock beside him. He was settled in an armchair across from Colin's cot, but his mind was far away. He was caught in a daze, focussing his energy on the wall behind his boy, and below the hanging portrait of his wife.

He knew if he looked up and locked eyes with Lilias that he chanced losing all his senses.

“We should hang a curtain,” Archibald thought, careful not to instinctively look to the object his mind was so focused on, “that way she’s out of my room” – no longer “our” room – “and she can watch over her son” – not “our” son, what kind of father am I to him anyway? – “but I won’t have to see her laughing face anymore.”

“Laughing at me,” the voice in his head continued. Now that she was gone, it truly seemed impossible to Archibald that her affections for him were genuine; they were nothing more than a joke – his heart was simply the fastest way to wealth and status.

“Or I could avoid this room all together,” he further considered. The nursery felt alive, cutting off his air supply. The suffocation was getting to his head and making him go mad; “Lilias loved me,” he choked out.

“I could never cover her beauty with any old dingey curtain. She would have never wanted to be hidden in such a vulgar way.”

He closed his eyes to escape the oppressive room; he took a deep breath of sweet air – allowing his lungs to fully expand, the only thing which alerted to him that he was still alive – and tried to push away the events of the morning.

He had awoken later than normal. He sat up and first looked to the clock – 7.30, around the time he’s expected to eat breakfast with his brother.

His gaze turned to be met with Lily’s eyes hanging on the adjacent wall, just as he had been doing for the last few weeks. Why had Neville hung it there in the first place? To mock me?

But it was becoming too much for Archibald. It was too much for him to be reminded of her everyday in such a manner.

He leapt out of bed and tore the offending portrait from the wall.

The doctor walked in a few minutes later with breakfast, only to be met with the sight of his brother in a fit of madness trying to force the painting out of the too-small window on the far end of the room.

Managing to restrain (though failing to calm) his brother, Neville removed the portrait of the former Baroness to the nursery instead, if only because it was the nearest room with available wall space.

He hadn’t considered that, in doing so, he gave Archibald yet another (poor) excuse for staying away from his son.

“It’s not fair.” Archibald had crumbled to the floor beneath the window, chilled by the autumn breeze invading his bed chamber.

“It just isn’t fair… I don't want him, this child… I want no part in his life… I want my wife back…” he continued numbling, as his brother shut the window and stared down at him in disapproval.

“Archie, you look truly pathetic,” he condescended. The doctor understood his brother’s feelings – he still felt the sting of Lily’s death too – but he had no patience for such weakness, even during a period of mourning.

“Quit crying and pull yourself together,” practically yanking the elder to his feet, “you’re a grown man behaving like a little girl,” Neville concluded in a huff of frustration.

“Why did she have to abandon me, and leave me with that boy?” Archibald continued complaining, “why did you save him and not her?”

The doctor’s temper was threatening to show over his brother’s insulting words.

“Goddammit Archie, do you really think I wanted this? I would have gladly given the boy’s life for hers! I tried to save them both, but I couldn’t – she was lost to us before I even made it out to the garden. Would you have prefered I left the boy to die as well as her?”

He didn’t mean it. No matter what he felt, Neville was a man of science and honour; he would not be able to live with himself if he had let the boy die, knowing he could have saved him.

This same logic is also how he coped with his guilt with regards to Lilias. He figured he could live with himself so long as he believed there was no way of saving her – that her death wasn’t because of something he could have (or should have) done differently.

Unfortunately, that was not how Archibald read the situation.

“You liar!” he roared in disgust at his brother, his brother who had done nothing but help the widower and care for the child since Lily’s death, “you did this to punish me. You let her die so I would be tortured by having to raise a motherless son for the rest of my sorry, lonely life.”

“Oh pity,” Neville spat in objection, “I loved LIlias! Why on earth would I intentionally let her die?”

Archibald’s eyes widened in a frenzy as a laugh, nearing on maniacal in nature, escaped his lips.

“You loved my wife, that’s exactly why you did it,” emphasizing each word, the Baron stepped closer to the doctor.

“You just couldn’t bear the thought of watching us live as a perfect family, constantly dreaming that you had fathered her child, that she was your wife and I was rotting away in my library, consumed by loneliness and self-loathing.

“That’s quite enough, Archie.” Neville’s tone was calm. The verbal abuse he could take, but the last thing he needed was Archibald worked up into a passion – another child to look after.

Nevertheless, Archibald persisted.

“Isn’t that what you always wished for, though? For father to have left the estate to you, for you to have been the first born, with a wife on your arm that could catch the attentions of every man in the Empire, whether you wanted them looking at her or not?”

“Of course I wanted all those things. Of course I was jealous of you. Is that what you want to hear?” the accused relented, “but that doesn't mean I wanted Lilias dead. She was an angel to you, and a friend to me. And if I could not call her my own, at least I got to see you happy.”

The brothers sat down to breakfast, allowing the food to ease their tension.

Taking a rose from the vase on the side table, “you’re my brother, and, at the end of the day, the most important person in my life, whether I like to admit it or not. I care about you, tuly I do,” and he tucked the rose into the breast pocket of Archibald’s dressing gown, adding, “for Lily, to keep her close to your heart.”

Neville cleared the dishes, leaving Archibald alone, withdrawing the rose from his pocket and rolling the stem between his fingers.

The clock struck five and Archibald rose to go down to dine, shaken from his reverie. On his way out of the nursery, he went over to the cot and placed the rose beside his son.

“Your mother and I are looking out for you, Colin.”

Then, he looked up to his wife. It was a difficult task, straining his fragile heart as he was met with her permanently laughing eyes; he did not have confidence enough to think he’d always be able to stay at least a little composed in his son’s room, so long as she would always be looking down on him like that.

But he was looking at her now, and he added to his thoughts, “a rose-coloured curtain would suit you, I think. Do you agree, my love?”


	5. Anger

The boy was getting worse.

That’s what the doctor kept telling Archibald, as though ignorant to the fact that the Baron had imagined such for the whole duration of Lilias’s pregnancy. He knew the child would be as cursed as him: a poor, sickly, cripple, whom no one would want to see, to be friends with, to love.

A part of him wanted the child to die – to be put out of his misery. But another part, the part he still held his wife in, reminded him that Lilias would never forgive him; she’d be heartbroken to know he held such little regard for a part of her he still had: the living proof of their love.

“I told you, Neville,” he exclaimed at the news, “that he’d be a sickly thing. I knew it even before she– before he was born.”

His brother picked up on the implication of Archibald’s statement; he sighed in defeat, letting his brow raise in an expression of incredulity.

“I tried to save her, you know that. I did what I could – I saved the boy. That child would have probably been small even if he’d gone full-term, Archie. You’re lucky he’s made it this far. I’ve. tried. Everything.”

“She was my wife!” Archibald’s voice was starting to raise in frustration; he rose from his chair, “and now she’s gone, and I’m stuck with that thing to remind me! Goddammit, Neville, you loved her too; you should have tried harder.”

Though hurt by the elder’s words, the doctor took a moment to breathe; Archibald had never been so short-tempered as he was in the last few weeks: in their youth, the younger brother was used to Archibald retreating in any kind of crisis.

“A coward shouldn’t be in charge of an estate of such reputation as Misselthwaite,” Neville would remark to his friends, bitter that himself, the able-bodied, sociable, attractive brother wouldn’t be the one to inherit their father’s title.

Perhaps a bit of residual bitterness still remained in the doctor’s subconscious; he’d found comfort in truly believing that he’d done everything he could to save Lilias, but had he done the same for Colin? Afterall, without his brother having an heir, he’d be next to inherit after Archibald, and the good Lord knows their mother’s death was what drove the former Lord Craven to an early grave just a few years ago.

As a doctor, he didn’t with his patient to die; nor, as a man, did he wish harm upon his nephew – but the secret hope still nestled itself inside the doctor’s mind.

Through all this inner-turmoil, Neville stood motionless, earning Archibald the chance to sooth his seething heart.

“Why her instead of him,” he murmured in a daze, lowering himself back into his chair.

Placing a comforting hand on his shoulder, “that’s better now, Archie, isn’t it?” Neville remarked, standing beside his brother.

“Try channeling these feelings into actual activities – when was the last time you went outside?”

Still in his dreamlike state, Archibald replied, not since the accident… nature reminded him too much of Lilias.

The other sighed, long and heavy; he should have figured as much.

He rang the servants’ bell, which Mr. Pitcher promptly responded to.

“Go down to the stables and tell them to prepare our horses. Archie and I are going out for a ride.”

The two brothers would spend hours riding out on the moors in childhood, racing around to see who could get their horse to gallop the quickest. (It was always Neville’s horse, Mephistopheles, but then he’d be too tired to continue so, while his horse rested, Archie would advance on his steady mare, Demeter.)

While Neville reminisced on these memories, Archibald’s turned to the fateful day two and a half years ago when he went riding down to the valley near the river, and met the woman he now cursed for ever loving him.

How vividly he remembered stumbling upon that young woman with hair spun of gold, and an inviting smile, so unlike the ones the women of high society would force themselves to bear in greeting “that miserable cripple.”

Lilias was never like those women anyway. But she would never smile at him like that again; no, she was one with the earth now.

Unknowingly, perhaps being accustomed to the route, Demeter had led Archibald to the river just by the little cottage Lilias was living in when they met. The garden which had grown with their love flourished into a wilderness – just as Lilias would have liked – just like that of the garden Archibald now avoided even thinking about now.

He left Demeter to drink – she was old and faithful and not easily spooked, so Archibald didn’t have to worry bout her wandering off – and walked over to the gate he had so hesitantly stood at the first time he met those hazel eyes which bore into his heart, and haunted his dreams.

He picked a rose off one of the nearby bushes to test its willingness to be set free; it provided just enough resistance to entice the lost, lonely man to pick at another, and another, and another, until a bare patch was visible from the gate where Neville now stood.

He carefully approached his brother (who had collapsed in a pathetic heap in front of the bush, amid the fallen fuchsia heads of Lilias’s precious blossoms.

“My dear little ones,” he heard the widower recall, “that’s what she’d say to the blossoms. I can still hear her murmuring to them; she believed that conversing with plants was just as necessary to helping them grow as rich earth or water or sunlight.”

He continued murmuring this initial phrase to each rose that had fallen victim to his wrath. He picked up each individual blossom to examine it, to apologize to it; if they were the slightest bit imperfect, he threw them across the grass – Lilias loved all her flowers, imperfections included, but Archibald knew she only deserved perfection in return for how much love she gave them.

The same way she deserved more than a hunchback, a recluse, as the object of her affection; she’d say she loved him just like her blossoms: imperfections included. But that was getting harder and harder to believe, and the image of her beautiful face started to blur in his memory.

“It’s pitiful, Neville,” somewhere between a bark and a sob,” disgraceful honestly, that such impurities would dare show themselves in her garden,” Archibald commanded, reaching to test more roses at the lower end of the same bush as previous.

“You’re behaving like a child,” the doctor wanted to scold, but he didn’t have the heart; wasn’t it qa week or two ago that he felt the same frustration?

Neville just expressed it differently, privately.

“How could something she gave life to be so unfortunate, so vile.” Archibald continued muttering grievances like these at the foliage, but his brother knew he wasn’t talking about flowers anymore.

He helped the elder stand, hoping removing him from a site that held such strong ties to Lilias may be healthier for Archibald.

“The boy is a fighter,” he tried to reassure, “I know thing are not looking well, but I’m trying – and so is he; he needs his father though, Archie. He needs to know you support him, even if he won’t remember.”

Calling Demeter to his side, “he needs his mother.”

“He needs both, Archie – you need to be both for him.” The brothers trotted in the direction of Misselthwaite, leaving the valley behind them.

“Find the part of you that held Lily close and use it to love your son, her son.”

“I can’t,” Archibald snapped, “that part is hers. He doesn’t deserve it; he’s the reason that she was taken from me – he took her from me!”

And with the click of his tongue and a ick of his boot, Archibald sped away from Neville. His brother held his own horse steady at the excitement – this wasn’t a childhood race. 

Perhaps a bit of space between the two brothers would be good, Neville pondered, free to grieve in their own ways.

He just needed to trust his older brother not to do anything reach – anything Lilias wouldn’t want him giving into...


	6. Fear

Misselthwaite Manor was an esteemed estate in Yorkshire; it had stood a couple miles outside of Thwaite Village for the last six centuries.

Over time, some of its kitchen gardens fell out of use, and slowly, the walls came down with them. However, one still stood enclosed, but abandoned, as it was known there was another door beside the one through the other kitchen gardens. Unfortunately, none of the gardeners could say where it was.

When Lilias accepted Archibald’s proposal of courtship, he had ordered this last garden’s connecting door sealed. He already had the key to the other door in his possession and, with a newfound vigour that came with his love for Lilias, he searched for this door until he found it hidden amongst the ivy which covered the wall along the outer paths.

He had considered having the ivy cut away, but instead had a loyal gardener plant a rose bush across the path from where the entrance was – let it remain a secret. Ben Weatherstaff was a trusted man, having worked on the estate since Archibald was a child, and the master knew he’d be able to keep quiet; he didn’t gossip like the majority of staff.

In the decades of disuse, the garden had grown perfectly wild. Lilias would always say that gardens that are too maintained – too touched by man – weren’t gardens at all; they certainly were works of art, but they weren’t “true” gardens. To her, a “true” garden was an oasis built by nature, simply assisted by human help.

The prime example was how Lilias trained her roses: they grew wild, of their own accord, on bushes, up trees, along the ground, wherever they wanted. Lilias had guided them up the massive oak which stood sentinel at the centre of the garden, and continued ushering the blossoms over the low-hanging bough she would sit upon.

It was winter, under this tree, when Archibald proposed to Lilias, and she got to work right away on readying her gift for the spring.

It was the following winter, under this tree, husband and wife had been out in their garden, the night Lilias told Archibald she was pregnant with Colin.

It was the following winter that Archibald stood outside the garden door for the first time in months, since the day he turned at the sound of her cry to see her lying – weak and afraid – under this tree, where the boy was born.

Archibald fondled the key in his hand, thinking about its twin, the new copy given to Lilias with the ring on it when he proposed; the one now lying with her. After the wedding, that one was engraved with her new name – Lady Lilias Craven – and their anniversary – 1 May, 1900.

Dans le premier de mai, on vend des muguets

The French saying ran through Archibald’s head as he remembered Lilias’s soft, angelic voice saying it.

“We should marry on Lily-of-the-Valley day – after all, it is my namesake!” she much preferred the poetic translation of Lilias, rather than the typical Lily; she didn’t have anything against the other flowers, she just didn’t like the connotations behind society comparing her to a Lily.

Archibald had done so once – out in the valley where they first met. She flinched and he retracted his statement, having meant it as a compliment, but now fearing he’d upset her.

“I’m sorry,” she’d said, “usually men mean that in a vulgar way. As in, I’m purer than they want me to be.

“Why should you have to do whatever they want?” he’d observed, “I would never ask such a thing of you.”

Lilias blushed, embarrassed by the topic of conversation, but flattered by the declaration, “and that is why I love you so much, Archie!”

Despite all her words, Archibald had been so afraid that she wouldn’t want to be his wife. Even as she walked down the aisle at their wedding, the fear was there. But she melted it away when they joined hands, unable to stop beaming at him, her eyes shining in delight.

The boy had her eyes; would he smile like that one day? Would he even live long enough to do so?

Archibald put the key into the door, but froze before he turned it. He feared that day was not far enough off for him to reenter – he was afraid that memories of Colin’s birth would come flooding back, and he wouldn’t be able to handle it.

He was worried that good memories would overwhelm him as well, a melancholic reminder of what he’ll never have again. He would make no more of these memories with Lilias, they would have no memories as a true family. She’d talked of their child learning to walk in the garden. Now, Archibald wasn’t sure the boy would ever be strong enough to stand, let alone to leave the house.

Suddenly, an even more frightening idea came to Archibald. He retracted the key and stumbled back onto the path, letting the loose ivy swing and cover the old door again.

“What if they boy does get strong enough to come outside, and he wants to spend all his time in the garden like his mother?” he thought aloud, “and what if he wants to climb up the tree?” The branch Lilias used to sit on may have broken off, but there were others like it, except higher, which made the terror even worse.

Archibald was a young boy once, albeit a sick and crippled one, but he still knew how curious and defiant Colin would be. Even if he forbade him from climb, Archibald knew he’d find a way up.

He couldn’t let that happen – he couldn’t lose the boy the same way he lost his wife.

Archibald looked back down at the key in his hand and held it tight.

“One is already buried with her,” he resolved, “I will bury this one as well.”

He turned and knelt down. With his bare hands, he began digging a hole under the rose bush that he used to look out for every day, which marked the door to his Eden. He wouldn’t tell anyone, not even Ben – and who would find it? It was winter now no one was working here. Come spring, the Lilies-of-the-Valley his wife had planted would be in bloom of their own accord – the one’s she had clipped for her bouquet the day they were wed.

Archibald’s back began to ache from the strain – Lilias did most of the work in their garden – but he kept going; Colin must never know of the garden.

A spasm of pain shot through his spine, and the man took it as a sign to stop. The hole wasn’t very deep, but no one would be looking for it, no one would be digging here. He placed the key in the ground and tried to quickly bury it. When he stood, he hurt all over, having to put much more of his weight on his walking stick while going back to the manor.

His hands and trousers were covered in soil, but he hardly cared, his mind racing with preparations.

He knew he must restrict mention of the garden in the household. It should be too hard – most of the staff had already quit discussion of Lilias for fear of upsetting the master.

Colin would never learn about the garden, or the full story of his mother’s death, and maybe Archibald would forget all about it too.

Deep down, he secretly hoped that, if he could forget about the tragedy in the garden, perhaps even the garden itself, it may just bring Lilias back to him.


	7. Searchings

Archibald was sat at his desk, mechanically signing paper after paper that Pitcher put before him. He’d written easily two dozen letters that morning, always beginning each with the date: 22 June, 19––.

In his youth, the summer solstice was nothing special – it meant more time being ridiculed for not going outside. Once he met Lilias, he grew to love it as she did; she wished for sunlight, not just so she could be out in her garden, but because her garden itself thrived in the summer sun.

Now, nearly a year after he’d last set foot in the garden, Archibald was thankful he’d buried the key: if Lilias couldn’t spend the day in the garden, he didn’t want anyone to disturb it; not even himself.

He wondered as of late if she could still be there – not in body, but in spirit. While he had been having trouble distinguishing his dreams from a mere fanciful reality, he sometimes thought that, as he sat up into the early hours of the evening, he heard her calling his name.

He knew it wasn’t possible, but a part of him wanted to believe; he needed to believe that she was still there with him, guiding him, keeping him alive.

“You need rest, Archie,” the doctor had recommended, “I could give you something to help you fall asleep, but I fear this is a result of more than just fatigue; ever since Lily’s death you’ve thrown yourself into your work, and it’s becoming too much of a strain on you. I think you need some time away from it all.”

Archibald dreaded a trip to the continent almost as much as remaining at Misselthwaite. What if, no matter where he went, he couldn’t escape the memories of Lilias?

Or worse: what if he did?

He’d turned down his brother’s sedatives; these nights spent somewhere between dream and waking kept Lilias close – he didn’t want to lose her. He couldn’t.

In the night, after the rest of the house had gone to bed, he began slipping out of his apartment, nightlight in hand, to search for the source of the beautiful voice he heard calling to him.

His stealth wasn’t so much for fear of the servants finding out about his midnight wanderings – he was their master, and the few staff who remained after the passing of their mistress wouldn’t risk losing their positions for some gossip – as it was for fear of his brother finding out; he hadn’t told Neville about the voices he heard, afraid the doctor might try to have him committed.

He knew Neville was already considering such.

Archibald thought he saw glimpses of her skirt rounding a corner, heard her light footsteps running down the hall with that childish energy she radiated.

He at last stopped in front of the grand oak doors which led into the shut-up ballroom. This was the first room he ordered closed, just a few days after she was laid to rest: without Lilias on his arm, he couldn’t imagine hosting another one of those parties Misselthwaite was once known for.

But he’d seen the door close as he came around the next bend (or so he believed to have) and he braced himself to enter the room.

The door wasn’t locked – he trusted the household to stay out of whatever rooms he ordered – and he prepared for the memories associated with this room to come flooding back.

However, as he looked into the ballroom, he saw neither stacked chairs nor dingy sheets, neither drawn curtains nor cold stone. Instead, he found the last rays of light pouring in from the tall windows, the non-electric chandeliers shining, and a fire blazing in the wall across from him; the air was filled with music and gay chatter.

Brightly dressed guests sat at the tables, drinking and gossiping, while others danced across the middle of the hall. Lord Craven walked to the centre of the crowd, still in his dressing gown, yet feeling more confident than he’d ever felt in full tails out in society; besides, no one seemed to notice his strange choice of dress. He’d turned toward the entrance where servants were bustling in and out to care for the guests.

Slowly, the dancers parted, leaving Archibald alone. He turned back to the fireplace, but was met with a much more radiant sight:

Lilias stood smiling and offering her hand to him, holding her skirt up in the other.

It wasn’t exactly her dress; Lilias had not wanted Archibald to spend so much money on a dress she’d only wear once before converting it into another evening gown which would join the dozen or so that would crowd her wardrobe. The boxes which arrived from Paris following the wedding tour had seemed endless – did one person really need this many dresses? – but she didn’t mind that her wedding dress wasn’t among them.

Instead, it was boxed up again in the attic, where is had gone after the former Lady Craven wore it for the same occasion decades earlier. It wasn’t in fashion, as her sister, Rose, had critiqued, but Lilias didn’t mind: it was beautiful on her; she’d even once quipped that she could spend the rest of her life in it.

Her beauty in the garment was inherent to Archibald, and he had no qualms parting with the dress for the sake of her proper parting wish to be laid to rest in it.

But, even with the night air blowing in, betraying that the memory was an illusion, Archibald pushed that thought away, and walked forward to take his wife’s hand, reliving the joy he felt when they first danced as husband and wife. (Archibald may have been traditional, but one precedent Archibald was willing to stray from was leaving for the wedding tour directly after breakfasting – and he was so happy he did; there was nothing he could compare to the bliss he felt as he danced with his wife for the first time, showing her off to all the people who taunted him, made him believe that he’d never know such joy.)

Was this even a memory, or had he actually found sleep and gotten absorbed in a dream? Archibald couldn’t tell, but he hoped for the former, fearing that a dream would too quickly turn into a nightmare. Such a wish was granted as the woman in his arms pulled him close and kissed him sweetly.

Perhaps he hadn't forgotten what it felt like to hold her in his embrace.

The couple danced around the ballroom as the music swelled, Archibald willingly losing himself in Lily's eyes, while she hummed along to the tune the quintet played, equally lost in the gaze of her husband’ kind brown eyes, full of love, and devouring her as though she were Heaven itself.

Archibald wasn’t aware of how absorbed he was in this fantasy until it all vanished into thin air at the sound of his name being called from the doorway; someone was chastising him, he could hear it in their voice.

He frantically, pathetically, groped around him, mumbling his wife’s name, trying desperately to get Lilias back. The doctor had come up behind him, reaching to restrain his brother’s flailing arms.

“Goodness, Archie,” Neville exclaimed, desperate to calm his brother, “she is gone, let it go!”

“But she’s not gone,” Archibald protested,” she was just here a moment ago, and you drove her away!”

Leading him out of the room, “this has gone too far – you thought you were dancing with her? She is dead! This isn’t healthy,” the younger continued to complain, still trying to process the scene he walked in upon.

He had been awoken in the night because Colin was in a fit. It took some time to get the infant under control, and, by then, the doctor was wide awake.

He had been walking to the library when he saw that the door to the ballroom was open; upon investigating, he saw first an abandoned candle resting on a nearby table, then he noticed his brother twirling around the room with his arms out, as though he were dancing with an invisible partner. A broad grin spread across the Baron’s face like nothing the doctor had seen in the months since Lily’s death.

“As a doctor, I think you need to leave this house,” he proposed while leading the elder back to his rooms, hoping Archibald’s fantastical, sleep-deprived state would make it easier to convince him to leave, “and as your brother, I say the same.”

“Why not go to Paris for a few weeks,” he continued, the other nodding along, “I can take care of the house in the meantime.”

His brother tried to argue that point, but Neville quieted him with reassurances.

Thus, it was decided: Neville would take over the estate for the next few weeks, while Archibald spend some time off in Paris; hopefully, a change of scenery would improve his spirits.

Neville also secretly prayed that this sojourn would also make it easier to convince Archibald to stay away longer, perhaps even turn the running of the estate over to his brother full time. Of course, he wasn’t entitled to his brother’s inherited status, but if Archibald were to formally retire–

“Of course, then the estate would go to Colin,” the doctor pondered, “so long as the boy is alive, that is.”

The boy had been quite ill as of late, and Archibald hadn't seen him in longer, but thinking (hoping?) that the boy wouldn’t live long enough to see his father’s return, he figured it best to visit the child before he set off.

When Archibald had finished packing, the master steeled himself to say a quick goodbye to the boy. Thankfully, the child was asleep by then.

It took all his strength to go into the room, especially after noticing Lily’s portrait – “foolish girl” he grumbled, drawing it closed, hiding his late wife’s laughing eyes, mocking him; he figured the new nurse (Neville had recently ordered the dismissal of the child’s wet nurse) must have looked at the portrait in curiosity, and forgot to cover it when she left.

“Or it could just as easily have been Neville?” he continued wondering, doing whatever he could to avoid going to his son’s bedside.

“Farewell, Colin,” he’d finally managed to say to the sleeping baby, “I have to go away, but your mother is looking out for you.”

He learned over the cot and placed a gentle kiss upon the little boy’s head.

Memories rushed back to him, the last time he’d shown this much genuine affection toward the boy was while he was in Lily’s arms.

She was sitting up in bed with Colin, Archibald supporting her weight in his own, trying to pretend that everything would be okay.

“He’s so tiny,” she murmured, her effervescent smile masking the pain she felt all over, “and he’s so perfect.”

Neville had advised Lilias against attempting a feeding, but she fought him: “it’s the first instance a mother gets to develop a special bond with her child,” she’d argued, “and, if I won’t have the chance to properly raise my son, I need at least that. Please,” she begged, “you are a doctor, you know I’m not inventing this as an excuse.”

Dr. Craven wasn’t going to argue with such determination anyway – it was late, and the day had been too long.

The baby looked up at his parents with wide, curious eyes – just like his mothers – his mouth forming a tiny “o” as he held onto his father’s finger.

“Of course he’s perfect, you made him that way,” Archibald professed, kissing his wife.

“We did, Archie,” Lilias replied, giggling as a faint blush formed in her cheeks.

Archibald pulled her even closer, happy to see some colour in her porcelain skin; she had been getting paler since that afternoon.

As the new little family continued to bond, Neville returned with a nurse to retrieve the boy.

The nurse reached for Colin, but Lilias wouldn’t let go.

“Lily, you need to get some rest,” he brother-in-law suggested wearily, taking up the camera across from the bed. (Lily had wanted some photographs as a family, “for Colin” she’d said.)

“Just,” she protested hastily, “one moment more, please.”

The doctor and nurse stepped back, and Archibald nuzzled into her golden hair.

“Colin, my love,” she began with quivering voice, “Mummy has to go to bed now, but know that I’ll always be with you,” taking a deep breath, “I love you so so much, my sweet little boy, and so does your father; he will take such good care of you, for both of our sakes.”

Tears were falling by now, gently yet steadily: her façade had cracked.

“And your uncle is a very good doctor – he’ll make sure you get well.”

She pulled the infant closer to her bosom, and Archibald wrapped his arms around the both of them. He leaned in a bit to softly kiss his son’s brow.

“Never forget that we love you, Colin; mum loves you more than the earth. And I’ll always be right there inside you, my dear.”

The doctor gave a glance to the nurse, and the young woman went over to Lilias, successfully retrieving the child this time, and briskly walked out of the room.

Lilias looked longingly after the retreating figure, until she had passed through one of the outer doors.

“You’ve been very brave today, my dear,” Neville said plainly, fighting to maintain a stoic exterior, “and I think you should face everything before you go to sleep.”

She knew what he was referring to – she’d been planning to do as much once she was alone with her husband – she hadn’t wanted to frighten Colin.

“Goodnight, my dear,” kissing Lilias on both of her tear-stained cheeks, “and God bless you.”

“You will help him get better,” she asked, lip quivering.

“Anything for you two.”

“Thank you for everything you’ve done for me and Colin today,” she softly replied, “and for being a wonderful brother to me,” she continued, “Goodnight, Neville.”

The doctor nodded and turned to walk out, hiding his sorrows. He closed the bedroom door behind him, leaving husband and wife alone together for the first time that day.

Almost immediately, Lilias broke the silence which hung thick in the air, choking out a heart-breaking sob.

“Archie, I’m so scared.”

Archibald held her protectively, his heavy tears falling upon her.

“I know, love,” he spoke softly, trying to reassure her – how do you reassure someone in this situation?

“You’ve been through so much today, my dear,” he continued, hoping the sound of his voice would ease her a bit. “And I am so proud of you – for fighting to bring our child into the world.”

Her crying was starting to let up, and she wasn’t shaking as much.

“I just feel I’ve failed you,” she managed to reply.

“Not at all! It’s all right that you’re scared – I’m terrified – but you’ve done nothing but make my life better since I met you.”

“And you’ve done the same for me,” she said. She tried to smile at this, but it only made more tears fall. “I don’t want to lose you, Archie; you're the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

She seemed lost in thought for a moment, and Archibald kept his focus on the unsteady rise and fall of her chest.

Then, “I always said I couldn’t imagine my life without you,” she mused, “and now–”

Archibald cut Lilias’s newest revelation off, quieting her with a kiss, not wanted to spend their last moments together worrying about the future.

He expressed as much to her after pulling away, concluding, “let’s enjoy each other’s company now.”

“While we still can,” he thought, but dared not add.

“Just one more thing about the future.” Archibald sense her restlessness and nodded for her to explain.

“You will take good care of Colin, even if he’s not,” she paused, searching for the right words, “even if he’s not perfect? Promise me.”

“I promise,” he replied, “he’s a part of us both – he’s a part of you – as you said before: he is perfect; and he will always be so in my eyes.”

That was apparently enough talking for the moment. Lilias cuddled closer to him, trying to find the least painful way to sleep; He helped her move, hypnotized by the bittersweet sound of her still-beating heart, straining under the exertion of her movement.

“I love you, Archie,” she declared as she settled into her new position. “I’m sorry if I never said it enough.”

Even just hearing her speak his name was enough for Archibald; her love made him feel inexplicably blessed.

“I just can’t stop saying it now – it’s like my heart is ready to burst will all the years we’re to lose.”

“I don’t mind hearing it now,” her husband chuckled, which relaxed Lilias even further; this felt like any other night they’d spent together.

“Though you have said it plenty before, even if you didn’t always use your words to do so.”

“Well I’m using them now.” Her smile grew a little fuller, then fell, like a star growing to its brightest right before it reaches its end, and she added, “while I still can.”

Despite Lilias clearly being saddened by this revelation, it had the opposite effect on Archibald: to him, it meant that she'd find a way to show him she still loved him when she was no longer there to tell him so, even if she didn’t realise this in the moment.

Thus, he was surprised by her next comment.

“You’ll never forget me, will you? Even once you’ve found a new wife?” There was no distracting her from his future without her.

“I wouldn’t dream of such a thing, Lily,” he exclaimed, feathering kisses all over her face. “I’ll never love anyone, except perhaps Colin” – perhaps – “as much as I love you! And certainly not another woman.”

Lilias tried to laugh at this, determined to not give in to the true gravity of their situation.

Twelve bells chimed in the night, signally a new day was upon them. Lilias reminisced on the first time she’d heard the bells of the famed Notre Dame Cathedral, while they were in Paris on their wedding tour.

This topic led to further conversation of happy memories, keeping the foreboding future out of the mind of husband and wife alike for the time being.

When Lilias began yawning to the point where she could hardly speak a sentence without doing so, Archibald ended this reverie.

“It’s late.”

“We should be getting to sleep now.” He spoke slowly, trying to keep his voice steady. “You look so tired.”

It was more a lamentation than an observation, but it came across to Lilias as a proclamation; she had to give in to sleep eventually – better it be natural before eternal.

His wife was shaking in his arms, her eyes glistening as they struggled to focus, betraying her exhaustion.

“I don’t want to , Archie,” she protested like a child, “I can’t.”

Both understood this declaration – they both believed it – yet neither had said it, until, “once, I go to sleep, I won’t–” Lilias admitted, “I won’t be waking up.”

She had thought saying this aloud would make her less afraid, but she was instead consumed by the shock of it all.

“I know, I know,” Archibald repeated, trying to ease her sorrows while masking his own.

“But wouldn’t you rather we both be sleep when–” he didn’t want to finish that sentence. He took a breath; Lily understood him too well regardless.

“No more tears,” he declared, trying to wipe the constant stream on his wife’s cheeks away, “just sweet dreams.”

“Only if you’re holding me all night,” Lilias countered, sniffling.

“I swear I won’t let go.” Archibald squeezed her gently to emphasise his assurance.

“Goodnight then, Archie – my husband, my love.”

She tried to reach up to kiss him, but winced in pain before she was able to do so. Instead, Archibald took her face in both his hands and lent down to kiss her with all the ardour he could muster in his overly-tired state; it had been a dreadfully long day for both of them , and he wished he could spend the rest of eternity frozen in this moment.

“Sweet dreams, Lilias,” he whispered, reluctantly parting their lips, “I pray you find peace.”

“And we’ll be together again when you do too,” Lilias said to reassure Archibald, as well as herself.

“But hopefully not for a long time. I’d love to take you with me, but I can’t,” she added, “for Colin’s sake.”

“For Colin’s sake,” her husband repeated, acknowledging his comprehension of this warning: don't try to come after not, not while we have a son you need to take care of.

“I love you,” she murmured, at last shutting her eyes, ready to submit to sleep.

“And I love you, Lilias, always,” he replied, gently.

She smiled at his declaration, and Archibald fell asleep to the sound of her slow, yet calm, breaths.

This memory was too much for the master to handle, though, and Neville, who had been lurking outside the room in case Colin stirred, had to nearly drag his weeping brother out to the carriage.

“A sojourn on the continent will be good for him,” the doctor muttered, “and having him out of the way will do wonders for us all.”


End file.
